Time, passing

Time, passing – clinging and clayey
like the mildewed earth
in the fallow flowerpots
stacked in one corner
spider webbed
mottled like rusting skin
exposed too long
under the aging sky –

The lime thicket, untended all summer
puts unkempt caramel leaves to the air
that smell of fruit souring.

From the old cane chair
where I sit, sniffing the fermenting mist air
I watch the overgrown plot adjacent
unattended, caught in a prison term
fenced by choking wild grass
and writhing creepers
encircling a collapsed shack
its termite ridden bones
half eaten by the soil
and still-born concrete masonry
rising against a wasting horizon
like the grappling remnants
of some wounded mammal
of a lost epoch
encrypted in sedimentary rock.

And it’s another year,
another new sun,
already old.



 Time, passing.

After the funeral of the dead year,
already a memory, a bird—
frantic or ecstatic or gone mad
in the thickets—
hammered open my night

Full of verve,
sure of his pitch,
and Time, passing
levitated in miracle
and good news.

Then swift and deafening,
a staccato burst of raucous revellers,
silenced him.

-Rita Putatunda

A Work In Progress

I've been at this stodgily, but my heart isn't in it, and it shows. I'm still recovering from Thomas's death and I just can't paint when I am so terribly sad. Thomas was a special cat.. All the animals in my life are and have been special, in their own way, but there was something about Thomas.. she was more human than any of the others, except for Shulky, my dog, who died of old age. Somehow, losing a loved one to old age is easier to accept than something like what happened to Thomas. I still see Thomas shadowing me around wherever I go in the house.. I turn around to look and only emptiness meets my eyes.. there is no way I can explain how empty that feels.

Anyway, I am determined to struggle on with my painting, and though I know this will not get rid of the emptiness Thomas's death has created in my life, I will dedicate this painting to my beloved cat.

I'm still getting used to the nuances of acrylics, most of which I'm discovering via trial and error. I need to push that second flower back so that the focus is on the first flower. I don't know if I want to put more details on the leaves.. at the moment I feel they are fine as they are. Maybe I'll texture the red leaves a little more. I sort of struggled with the background on this one.. I didn't know whether I wanted it lighter or darker than the foreground.. I think the darker one that I opted for at the bottom part is working well to give that pop-out effect for the leaves. But the flowers are sort of getting lost in the lighter background on the top half. Maybe I'll change the background colour there, instead of changing the value.. use a complementary colour and see if that works. The best thing about acrylics is that I can do that, and in a jiffy.

The drowning fish

Nobody could hear her – the fish drowning

As she lay soundlessly groaning

Where they had hauled her

And thrown her under

The sun beating down without mercy



Screaming – with silent gills gasping

They didn’t say poor thing

Let’s put her out of her misery

Let’s finish her quickly



As she lay dying – gills still heaving

They weighed her and scaled her

And cut her guts open

Spilling her life out

In one last gasp


- Rita Putatunda

The Banyan Tree

I go to the Pune University sometimes to sketch and paint. If I lived closer to it I would spend large chunks of my life there. I love the quiet green environs of its sprawling grounds, which are filled with ancient banyan trees. Here's a little ode to these graceful grand old trees.


Gnarled and ancient stood the huge banyan tree in a quiet corner of the forest

It’s branches knotted and twisted bent to the rough forest floor

Carpeted by the brown earth on which grew rough grasses

Thorn bushes and young saplings and myriad trees of every kind

The tamarind so sour and the flaming gulmohar

The sool babool so straight and the neem with its bitter leaves

They grew tall and spread their branches too

But the banyan strong and wide stood sturdiest of all

It’s trunk spanning the girth of the life of the ancient forest itself

Its branches encircling the earth itself

Each branch sending a daughter branch down

Which took root in the dirt and sprung new leaves and new branches

Which flowered and fruited and sent more roots down to give new birth anew

In its embracing shade the banyan gave shelter

To the small and the big to the weak and the strong

To the brown mynah and the singing koel to the crow and the peacock

To the mischievous monkey and the gentle deer lifting its nibbling snout

Without difference to anyone the banyan gave of itself to every one

To some its soothing shade to others its fruit

To some a haven for the ebullient spirit

To others a resting place for the weary soul

To the seeking mind it became the tree of knowledge

To the hungry soul it turned into a fountain of wisdom

To the child of the forest a nurturing mother

To its older sisters and brothers an indulgent father

To the wayfarer the traveler the wanderer a generous friend

Asking nothing in return taking nothing as due

Ancient yet with the sap of youth coursing in its knobby soul

Tall and wide and wise and old the banyan stood


-by Rita Putatunda

the aching

the aching of living

the aching of trying

to make sense

of a throbbing

neverending sobbing

the aching of trying

to keep believing

there is a meaning

the aching of whiling

away present tense

of a groping

unremitting unknowing





the aching of dying

the aching of crying


-by Rita Putatunda

Painting tiger lilies, Twitter & its "gurujis", And a song

The sketch is done on the canvas and it's waiting for me to paint the colours in. But as usual, before I begin a painting, I get the jitters. Something like stage fright. Something like butterflies in the stomach. Something like I used to feel before a big match in badminton and Table Tennis when I knew my opponents were tough. Once I hit the shuttlecock or TT ball, of course, my mind would be so engrossed fighting it out, in winning the point, that all the butterflies disappeared. It's the moment before the first stroke that is the really tough part.

One terrific thing about my getting back to my art is my getting rid of my twitter addiction. I hardly ever feel the need to go there now - only do so now when my bro wants me to promote a piece of his. I don't know why I ever wasted my time for so long on that site. Now when I do drop in for a minute or two and read the tweets on my TL - and I follow a wide range of people, from the crass to the erudite - all I see are these silly smart alec quips, each trying to prove how clever/wise/smart/funny etc they are. Most of them sound so pompous and full of themselves. And then of course you have these "guruji" types - creepy hypocrite mediocrities - ugggh!

I had a fat "guruji" coming and getting all pompous and patriarchal on me, "advising" me to be serious, and that too about my painting, if you please! I really wish I had taken a picture of the sly DM he had sent me saying he wanted to flirt with me. These "gurujis" should be exposed for what they really are. And when I told him that sure he could flirt with me as long as he did it openly on TL, not on DM, the coward - these types are always cowards - quickly deleted his DM. Got scared shit of course.. ha ha! Anyway, one sees this kind of thing happening so blatantly everywhere - that ugly fart Judge Ganguly, that creep Tejpal being the most recent examples. Along with all their pals who come to their defense.

It's this stupid "guruji" that finally made me realise what a silly waste of time twitter is - and wow, am I glad for that!

Anyway, enough procrastination, to my tiger lily painting I must go with this beautiful song on my lips :)

Thousand Violins by the Tiger Lilies: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L9a5MbslOHQ

And here's the lyrics:-

I’m calling out but no one will be hearing
I’m laughing but I cannot be heard
I’m crying but no one will be drying
These tears that fall

So how do we ever face a thousand violins
And how do we ever even start to begin

It’s raining without a sign of stopping
It’s sunny but no-one’s getting warm
In Heaven the harps have all been broken
And these tears they fall

So how do we ever face a thousand violins
And how do we ever even start to begin

All through the days now faded away
One thought remains one thought does stay
It haunts me still it will remain
I’m lost in wonder and I hear again

Tell me how do we ever face a thousand violins
And how do we ever even start to begin
Tell me how do we ever face a thousand violins
Tell me how do we ever even start to begin
Thousand violins

Your Silent Words

With your silent words/ I sat/

Not still/Restless being that I am/

As Restless as a brewing/Storm/

I paced – I read/I brooded – I fret/

I pottered around/In my kitchen/In my garden/

Dashing up to your silent face/To wonder/To ponder

Every now and again/I dream/Sometimes – I scream/

With the computer monitor/Open in my face/

I sit/Fingers ready to jab/And jab/

I did/Endless jabs of silent words//


But suddenly somewhere/somehow/

There was a breeze/and the jabs ceased/

My mind was seized/but now released/

The silent words/The silent face/I’ll keep/

When parched/with the unknown thirst/unquenched/

Long draughts/I’ll drink from/them//

- Rita Putatunda

Sunflowers in the winter

Though I'm saying it myself, I think my winter sunflowers have come out superb :) I'm so happy with the colours and depth I've managed to create. I also like the metaphorical aspect given to the painting, juxtaposing a dead remnant of a flower along with a newly opening bud and the other flowers in various stages of development, or stages in life.

Oranges in foliage

The more I use acrylics, the more I fall in love with it. I adore the brilliant colour options - a wider range than you get in oils, I noticed - I have access to. I wish I could've cut out the shine of the sun on the painting, but there just wasn't enough light indoors, hence clicked it outside, in the driveway (hence the the grey stony background). While clicking it a neighbour happened to pass by and she took one look at it and asked me if I was having an exhibition of my painitngs, and that she'd certainly want to visit it if I did. That made my day :D

The thing about this painting is, I used a more realistic technique with the oranges while I did the foliage in a loose abstracted way. And I like the effect that has created. Like I mentioned in a past blog, I'm really really loving these still lifes. Flowers and fruit and leaves are such fun to do, particularly because they have such fabulous colours. Meanwhile my sunflowers painting is almost done, just needs a few finishing touches. I'm doing that in oils hence it's taking longer, which is another aspect of acrylics that I'm appreciating more and more.

My wine tasting cum painting weekend was great fun, though the wine wasn't particularly great. Let's just say Indian wines are still a work in progress. Even the cheapest foreign wines one gets here taste so much better, but then they had a head start on us of course.

And now for some Ludovico Einaudi

Lovely.. sublime music to take into my dreamland :)



Time Lapse: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7baW85kLcLI

Burning: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_z65hhnY6Lw

Earth Prelude: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9X6sGu8oTiQ

my next two most fav Leonard Cohens

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mO5fBcWmPfE

Hey, that's no way to say goodbye and Ring the bells

Leonard Cohen's I tried to leave you

One of my most fav Leonard Cohen songs.. and I love love love Sharon Robinson too, phew, what a voice.. and the instrumentals.. they're particularly a great feature in Cohen's songs: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dx7tTmRr7xk

Her half of the full circle

She was running. Her feet flying. She didn’t know where. It was an empty path. The dusty road endlessly jumping ahead of every milestone she passed. On each milestone sat a figure cross legged with flowing hair. Rigid as stone. Each flying past. The faster she ran the faster they became the past. Some had open eyes. Like poached eggs. The disintegrating yolk hardened in gooey yellow streams. On their stony cheeks. The trees on either side reaching their leafy hands across the road forming a tunnel through which she ran. Even as she ran she held her mirror to her face. Jumping up and down as she pounded on and on. And even as she ran, and the tunnel grew deeper and darker, she heard the pounding steps of someone else running towards her. And her heart pounded. She wondered who it was. Another life? She wanted to meet another life. Another heart that pounded like hers. Another pair of feet that bounded like hers. And who were these cross legged, lifeless stony figures that watched her with their poached egg eyes. She could see them as she left them behind reflected in the mirror she held up to her face. On and on they jumped endlessly behind her even as they sat in their rigid poses. On the empty dusty road. Sometimes it felt as if she was running on the same spot. Caught in this endless tunnel without a beginning without an end. And yet, there were the footsteps she distinctly heard. Coming towards her. Louder and louder they grew the faster and faster she ran. On her spot. But no, the road was moving under her feet. The dust swirling every time her foot punched against its skin. So she must be moving ahead. Getting somewhere. Where was she running? Whom was she going to meet? There was not a glimmer of sky in the jumping images in her eyes in her mirror. Where was the sky? Would the tunnel ever end? Who was it coming towards her? Could they hear her pounding feet? And her pounding heartbeat? The tunnel had many bends in her half of a full circle, and suddenly when her footsteps turned around the blind bend, the tunnel disappeared. An evening sky spread above her head. The horizon bleeding with the sun setting across a wide river with turbulent waters where her feet came at last to a halt. And across the river, in the dim light, she saw another dark forest with a dark tunnel disappearing into its heart. And at the clearing on the bank on the other side of the stream, sat a cross legged figure, ancient and rigid. Its poached egg eyes watching her. Who are you, she called, her heart pounding across the churning waters of the stream. Even though in her heart she knew. It is you. Nobody else but you. Don’t you recognize yourself? A voice like the turbulent waters of the river answered. She flung her mirror into the moving waters. She no longer had need for mirrors. As it struck the surface it broke into infinite multitudes of tiny pieces. Each a tiny reflection of her face, ancient and rigid, with eyes like poached eggs, the disintegrated yolk hardened into gooey yellow streams imprinted on its shiny face, before disappearing forever into the churning river.

-by Rita Putatunda

Mystic Angel

Trying to add music - another major passion of mine - to my blog. Let's see if it works. Mystic Angel is so beautiful and peaceful, especially at this time of the night.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=86AlGBEct4s

Bashful Moon

she walks beneath the glowering clouds
the sky looks down with a questioning brow
a whispering wind ripples the writhing trees
with a restless hand; leaves twist and turn
the bashful moon hides in the sleeve
of tangled limbs spreading searching fingers
tipped with new born buds which have just begun to form
seeking the breathless breath of the coming storm

when the first drops spill
a shiver ripples and quivers through the satin petals
and in the heavens the unruly Gods dance
with mad abandon; the earth - prostrate
lies askance in acquiescent surrender
as the lightning slits and stings with a jabbing bite
the telephone lines tremble on poles
that tap-dance on tapering toes
the street snakes into the gloom
its skin slithering slick grey
tremulous in the treacherous squall
a solitary car slides cocooned in its hissing spray
the streetlights spatter in the hazy foam
a sudden razor slash rips through the thick clouds
revealing the bashful moon - plastered pale pliant peeled
excruciatingly exposed
she spurts and bleeds and sputters and spits
trips and tips over the brink
and drops with a clumsy flop into the muddy slush
the street winds on - brazenly bare, hardly aware
it glides it slips it drips it sinuously slides out of sight

she walks in the dying wind
she slides she slips she drips she hides she glides
out of sight - into the whimpering night

-by Rita Putatunda